70 MASTER SKYLARK

But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with
firefly lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow
about the open door. The horses of the company, scrubbed
unreasonably clean, snorted and stamped in little
bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the stable-boys,
not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out
wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The
grooms were buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and
sleepy-lidded maids stood at the door, waiting their fare-
well farthings.

Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some
yawned out of doors with steaming stirrup-cup in hand;
and some came yawning down the stairways pulling on
their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for a long
day’s ride.

“G@ood-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. ‘“Good-
morrow, sir, to you,” said they, and all came over to speak
to Nicholas in a very kindly way; and one or two patted
him on the cheek and walked away speaking in under-
tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all
the while. And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer,
came out with a great slice of fresh wheat-bread, thick
with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and gave it
to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer ex-
pression watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up
a stout hackney and a small roan palfrey to the block,
and the master-player, crying impatiently, “Up with thee,
Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the saddle of the

gray.